For God's Sake, Get The Milk: Drabbles from 221B
by sherlock-and-key
Summary: A collection of fluffy Sherlock ficlets, a work in progress. Most will be Sherlock/John. For the most part, whatever strikes my fancy. Rating might go up.
1. Honestly

_Author's Notes: _I wrote this for a drabble meme prompt on my Tumblr. It's my first attempt at Sherlock/John. Will most likely be adding more drabbles as well. Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

_Honestly_

John Watson did not know the point at which he became a compulsive liar. It wasn't in his nature, nor had he ever considered himself to be anything but a completely honest man, whether it was to himself or anyone else. But this Sherlock character- this man who had calmly swished into his life with his insane chases and snarky comments and tight silk shirts and.. _Oh God_, thought John. _Don't think about the shirts. Whatever you think about, don't let it be the shirts._ But that was the issue. I didn't matter what he thought about. Everything about this man made John want him more. He didn't know the exact point that he had developed this crush. _Crush?_ He thought. _Now you're just kidding yourself. This isn't quite a crush, now is it? Maybe hero worship gone horribly awry. _And somewhere deep in his gut, he knew that wasn't true. Because that's the kind of man he is. The kind that has the strength to admit something he isn't necessarily proud of. He wasn't sure, however, if he was the type of man who could admit to others something that he wasn't necessarily proud of. And so began the lying.

When Lestrade asks politely if he's interested in Sherlock (trying, John thinks, to break Sherlock's asexuality to him gently), John scoffs and says, "No, no, of course not. What on earth would ever give you that idea?" When Anderson notices John holding his gaze on Sherlock for a bit longer than may be appropriate, John clears his throat and looks at the floor, the ceiling, anything but Sherlock, his cheeks burning.

Nothing seems quite as hard as lying to the man himself. When Sherlock asks him why he broke his relationship off with Sarah, John replies, "Things just weren't quite working out." Of course, this isn't true in the least. It nearly tears John in half not to reach over to him, hold Sherlock's face in his hands and say straight into his eyes, "Because she wasn't _you_, you beautiful, brilliant sociopath." John may be an honest man, but he wasn't about to confess lust- no, it must be love- to an asexual consulting detective.

John was really quite surprised Sherlock hadn't deduced it by now. Wasn't he always solving people, figuring out what was inside their head? It was ridiculous that he couldn't tell his own flat mate had a raging crush on him.

Mycroft had figured it out. One conversation and John knew that he was on to him and his little secret. A little twinkle in his eye, a sarcastic smile when John blushed at the mention of Sherlock's strange habits. Sherlock's brother had deduced it, why couldn't he? Or did Sherlock simply not care enough to mention it? John immediately put that thought out of his head, as the thought of Sherlock simply not caring that much about him packed a searing punch.

One quiet day ("Disgustingly quiet," according to Sherlock) at Baker Street, John came to the conclusion that he couldn't lie to Sherlock anymore. He deserved the truth, the same as anyone else. John Watson would not become a liar. He never was, and he never would be dishonest man.

Sherlock was sitting at the table pouring boiling water over a heart in a dish. _I really, really hope it's not human_, thought John, but couldn't convince himself fully. The doctor opened the fridge and looked inside, hoping that by some act of God, Sherlock had done the shopping. Finding nothing edible, John shut the door and looked up. To his surprise, Sherlock was studying him with an almost suspicious look on his face.

"What?" said John, taken aback.

"You've combed your hair differently, you put on cologne, and you're wearing your favorite shirt. You're asking a woman out. Who?"

John stared at him. Of course he wasn't this dense? This man had caught criminals even the best of the best couldn't lay their hands on, and he was confused as to who John was interested in? He thought he was interested in a _woman_?

John's deer-in-the-headlights stare must have given him away because suddenly, Sherlock's eyes grew wider. He brought his hands up with steepled fingers. "_Oh_." He said, finally putting two and two together. "Why… Why did you never say anything?"

"Because….because…" John stumbled over his words, trying to form a coherent sentence. He hadn't counted on it happening this way. He looked away. Why was it so hard to lie to this man? To just tell him that it had been a misunderstanding, or lust, or a crush, or… "It's nothing. Really. Nothing." He silently cursed himself for being such a goddamned terrible liar.

Sherlock stood up and walked to John. "Considering you can't even tell a proper lie, I'd wager it's a bit more than nothing."

"A bit," said John, feeling rather small (emotionally as well as physically, for Sherlock stood a full head above him.)

Sherlock put his hand underneath John's chin, pulling his gaze upwards, "You, good doctor, have no idea how long I've been waiting for you to say that."

As he leaned into John to kiss him, John stepped back abruptly. "But… you're asexual. You told me yourself."

"And you, John, told me you were straight, which was also rather amusing. I would say we're even," he growled, his hand on the back of John's neck, the other on his waist. He looked at John properly now, his magnificent eyes just thin rings around an abyss of black pupil. "Though I happen to enjoy your company much more when we're frank with each other."

John smiled, and, grabbing Sherlock's shirt collar, pulled him in for another kiss. A kiss that had been waited for far too long. It held pure, true euphoria and the Doctor Watson had never been happier in his entire life. Honestly.


	2. Hitched

Author's Note: This is another drabble meme request. I'm not really a Molly/Lestrade shipper, but this drabble sparked an idea for my other fanfiction work in progress. So it's a lot like the first chapter of my other fic.

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine. I own nothing.

_Hitched_

You know that feeling you experience waking up somewhere that isn't your own bed? The momentary freak-out when you try to remember where you are? This is what Molly Hooper felt when she woke up on the bright, sunshine-y day (for London, anyway) of May 21st. Except the momentary freak-out wasn't momentary, and after a few seconds she still didn't know where she was. Her heart rate began to speed up. _Jim. _Everyone had told Molly that he wouldn't come back for her. He had used her and threw her away like trash. But what if this was him? She didn't move at first, looking around. The pounding in her skull surely wasn't helping matters either. She finally came to this realization: She was _hungover_. Like, seriously hungover. This never happened to her. _Ever._ She was good little Molly Hooper, after all.

She looks around some more, carefully taking in her surroundings. She was obviously in a man's bedroom. Not Jim's, though, she realized with a sigh of relief, and immediately felt calmer. _A tasteful man at least_, she thinks to herself. She turns over and the sheets next to her are rumpled but empty. _Where is he?_ There is a dresser against the wall, a closet, and wooden floors. Her stomach turns as she recognizes her skirt and top from yesterday tossed haphazardly on the floor. _I don't know if I _want _to remember_, she decides sardonically.

As this has never happened to Molly before, she doesn't quite know what to do. Does she gather her things and walk home? Or try to find him? She feels uncomfortable in this stranger's flat. Or is he a stranger? It's a mystery to Molly's fogged and still half-asleep mind, so different from her normal sharp and fine-tuned brain.

There's also a bookcase. She can work with that. She looks at the titles. Novels, mostly, but a few historical non-fictions, several back issues of sports magazines, and a couple biographies. But then she looks at the bottom shelf. _The Greatest Crimes in History_ and _Art Thefts of the Twentieth Century_ were among the titles. So, someone from the police force. They were always barging into Bart's, asking to look at corpses and autopsy reports. Unless- she let her mind wander for a moment- no, no. It certainly couldn't be _him_. He was in a committed relationship with his "flatmate", or so everyone assumed. No, a detective for the police, then. Who else…? _Oh good God, don't let it be Anderson_, Molly thought. She would never, ever forgive herself.

So she tries to reconstruct her night as she awkwardly lies by herself in this bed. She worked from 8:30 to 5:00 yesterday. What happened? Oh, yes. Sherlock had dragged half of Scotland Yard in for a demonstration on a corpse. After that, though. What then? Her mind stumbled through the hazy and seemingly distant memories. Drinks. Everyone was going out for a drink, and had invited Molly along, which hadn't surprised her. Normally the Scotland Yard crew ignored her unless they needed her corpses, but after Jim (_Moriarty_, she reminded herself. Jim from IT was just a mask) had manipulated her and left her, she had been on the receiving end of a lot of sympathy from people she barely knew. After all, word got around fast. After Ji-_Moriarty_ had left and Molly could finally speak about what he had made her do, Lestrade had said she could come and talk any time if she needed to. Everyone was so concerned. The Yard had recommended a therapist, but Molly declined. So instead, everyone became incredibly careful around her, never mentioning him and being overly friendly. Even her best friends sort of tiptoed around her. The Yard itself, on the other hand, simply assured her he was gone; he wouldn't come back for her.

She had felt out of place, but accepted the invitation. The only person she had even communicated with prior to this was DI Lestrade, but he was friendly enough. Molly thought that if she went for drinks, perhaps she could convince them that she was fine. Of course, she wasn't, but it had been four months and she needed to try to move on.

She vaguely recalled talking to Lestrade. ("Please, Molly, call me Greg.") They were chatting about Sherlock's strange habits and tendency to barge in at exactly the wrong time. So maybe… Her stomach flipped a little, and right at that moment the bedroom door opened.

"Morning," said Lestrade, a shy smile playing on his lips, walking over to the bed with a mug of tea. He handed it to Molly. She let herself smile. He was a good man, a kind man, and quite frankly if she was going to be waking up in anyone's bed on a Saturday morning, it may as well be his. "You slept well, I take it?"

"Fine, thanks. You should know I never do this. _Never._"

He laughed. "Me neither. In fact, it's been almost a year since the last time I… you know."

Molly smiled. She didn't mention that it had been nearly four for her. She took a sip of her tea. She glanced up at Lestrade's suddenly chagrined expression. "What?"

"Molly, do you have a _husband_?"

"Husband? What! No!" He was staring at her hand gripping the tea mug. She looked at her ring finger. Sure enough, a simple gold band was around it. She looked at him, mouth agape. "What the hell is _this_?"

It's then that she sees it, glinting in the mid-morning sun on the disheveled sheets beside her. A second, larger, gold band.

"Greg, I think we've been _married_."


	3. Mermaids

Original doodle here: .com/post/5937610495/whilst-watching-pirates-4-all-i-could-think-about-was

For the Tumblr geothebio doodle challenge.

Disclaimer: As much as I wish Sherlock and John were mine, they aren't.

Notes: Thanks for all the subscriptions! :D

"Sherlock," said John, arriving one evening at 221B. "The new Pirates is out, I'm going to go see it. You're coming."

"Why on earth would I want to pay to watch two hours of historically inaccurate pirate lore? No." Sherlock flopped back on the couch and stared determinedly at the ceiling.

"Because you haven't had a case for a week, I _like_ Pirates of the Caribbean, thank you very much, and I'm not keen on the idea of leaving you home alone again. The wall can't take many more bullets, and neither can your checkbook."

"Very well," Sherlock grumbled. "Let me take a shower."

Sherlock and John arrived at the cinema, got tickets, and waited for the movie to begin. Throughout, Sherlock was as obnoxious as usual when it came to inaccuracies in films—"As if anyone would even have worn such impractical clothing," he scoffed at one point. John didn't mind.

All was well until about an hour later. The film showed mermaids swimming around in the water. Sherlock began to shift uncomfortably. "Sherlock," whispered John. "Sherlock, are you okay?" The scene changed and Sherlock returned to normal.

The second time the mermaids appeared, Sherlock started breathing heavily. "Holy shit_, holy shit, John._" he said under his breath. "Mermaids. Get me out of here." His eyes were wide and a veil of sweat covered his forehead.

"Sher-" John started, but saw that he was, indeed, actually afraid. "This had better not be some sort of joke," he whispered.

When they arrived back at 221B, Sherlock resumed his normal activities, acting as if nothing had happened. John was, naturally, concerned. It was ridiculous, really, that the only thing that the world's only consulting detective was afraid of was a mythical creature. After about twenty minutes of waiting for an explanation he knows will never come, he asks.

"Sherlock, if you don't mind my asking, why exactly are you afraid of mermaids, of all things?"

Sherlock sighs and looks at John. "I once had an… encounter of sorts with a man who studied them. Oh, don't look so surprised. There are much less believable things out there. You would be moronic _not_ to fear them." John was stunned. Out of anyone else's mouth, he would have assumed this statement was pure sarcasm. But there was something about the way Sherlock said it. He really believed what he was saying. But- they weren't _real_. They couldn't be.

"Sherlock, these are mythical creatures we're talking about." He had known Sherlock to be a bit eccentric, but this… this was too far.

"John, I'm telling you the truth. Why would I lie to you about such a thing? Mermaids are a serious issue. Nobody is educated on how to escape an attack."

John shook his head and left the room, refusing to believe this utter nonsense. He tried to put it out of his mind, but somewhere, in a dusty, dank corner of his mind, Sherlock's words lurked: _Mermaids are a serious issue_.


End file.
